


with these eleven minutes

by grayintogreen



Category: Alias (TV)
Genre: Gen, Set pre-series, sark's a creepy little shit, umberto eco felt like poisoning a monk and so did i
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 00:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20769356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayintogreen/pseuds/grayintogreen
Summary: That was how he was trained, after all- blend into the shadows, walk without a sound, strike, and leave no indication you were there, save the body on the floor.





	with these eleven minutes

Footsteps echo loudly in quiet halls, but his feet don't make a sound, padding as lightly as a cat down the stone corridors towards the library. It's almost as if the hems of his novice robes don't even swish as he walks, so he's more of a ghost than a living, breathing individual. That was how he was trained, after all- blend into the shadows, walk without a sound, strike, and leave no indication you were there, save the body on the floor.

The library doors creak open, the first sound he's made since he entered the monastery, and even that he could have prevented had he wanted to sneak inside, but this much, he wants his target to hear. Costel Dalca- now Brother Costel to the kindly and accepting monks of this order who would never dare ask about his bloody past- sits behind a large writing desk, transcribing something from a large tome in front of him. Dalca looks significantly different from the photograph of him he was given during the briefing, supposedly taken about three years before he went into hiding. Where he was once a robust man with a neatly trimmed beard and expensive suits, now he sits a gaunt man, scruffy, broken by piety and poverty and supposedly better for it. Rumors had said that he had truly abandoned his old life and that hiding in a monastery wasn't some erratic course of action chosen by a man who had nothing left to lose. He had honestly decided to seek penance for his sins, of which he had many. Not being in the game anymore, however, was hardly an excuse when it came to Irina Derevko and Dalca had delivered her a crushing blow too many to simply allow him to live.

"I said I wasn't to be disturbed," Dalca mutters, not looking up from his work.

"Yes, I know," he responds, keeping his voice soft, allowing a small hint of nervousness creep into his tone- the very picture of a harried novice who is afraid he's going to get a lashing if he's not careful. "But the Abbot sent me to tell you that he needs this translated right away." He holds up an old book, the cover worn down to a dull brown, the lettering so faded as to be completely indiscernible, and the binding so frayed and ragged that it was a miracle that it wasn't falling apart in his hands.

Dalca looks up at that and seems to grow more annoyed that the novice who dared to disturb his concentration has his hood up and thus obscuring his features- clearly, he'd like to know precisely which novice he was going to snap at for this interruption. "Very well. Come on, let's have it," he growls, urging him forward.

So angry, for a monk. Of course, Dalca was always known for his temper. Even three years of servitude to the Lord could not break him of that. Sark's seen the pictures of his victims, too- service to the Lord will never forgive him for that, either.

The awkward steps he takes towards the desk belie the killer's grace underneath the robes. Gently he lays the book down where Dalca has cleared a place for it and starts to pull his hands away, but Dalca catches him by the wrist so hard that a jolt goes down his spine as a thousand different scenarios run through his head. Has he been made so quickly? Should he forsake the plan altogether and retaliate?

Dalca speaks before he can fully decide which way to react. "Your gloves, novice."

"Sir?"

Dalca jerks his wrist up as if he doesn't believe he's capable of seeing his own hands unless they're directly in his face. "Why are you wearing them? It's in the middle of summer."

He makes a point to swallow, to let his voice tremble a bit, "Sir, it's very cold in the basement, and.."

Dalca releases his wrist with a grunt of disgust and opens the book, flipping through the pages carefully. "Spoiled children, the lot of you. You experience a proper winter in Romania and then you can whine about the cold." He pauses, studying his fingers and noting the black ink staining his thumb and forefinger- quite unusual for such an old tome.

"What the...?"

The poison in the ink is fast-acting, thankfully. The words are barely choked out before Dalca's on the floor, gasping and sputtering. The candle on his desk very nearly hits the floor too, as his leg jerks out involuntarily and kicks the desk, but it's saved at the last minute. In the same motion that catches the candle, the boy in novice robes removes his hood, exposing a pale face and intense bright blue eyes, framed by a head of thick blonde hair.

Dalca chokes out a laugh. "You," he sputters.

Julian Sark doesn't react, merely kneels down beside Dalca and pulls a small vial out of his robes. "The poison currently in your bloodstream is absorbed through the skin. It is quick to take effect, but slow to kill. I estimate that you will be in agonizing pain for the next nine hours." He shakes the vial. "This is the only antidote."

Dalca hisses and makes a lunge for it, but Sark stands up and steps casually out of Dalca's reach. He blows out the candle before he places it back on the desk, leaving the room lit by nothing but moonlight. "I have been instructed to give you the antidote, provided that you cooperate with Irina Derevko's terms."

The old Romanian spits on the ground and scowls, starting to look less like a monk and more like the crime lord he is. "That Russian whore. She sends little boys to do her work, does she?"

Sark's jaw twitches, but he doesn't give Dalca the satisfaction of a better response than that. Irina has been called worse by much less cowardly men. "You will give her the operations manual for your entire organization. She's well aware that you still have contacts, despite your..." He gives the monastery's library a cursory glance, "...Circumstances. She requires access to them. Obviously, you won't be needing them anymore." He shakes the vial again, quirking a brow. "In return, I am prepared to give you the antidote and ease your suffering."

Dalca looks like he's considering spitting at him again, but clearly the pain is truly starting to overwhelm him, because he groans and mutters a code to a bank vault somewhere in Portugal that adds up to what Irina already knew about Dalca's operations. The code memorized, Sark rolls the antidote over to the Romanian's twitching form without getting close enough to be grabbed at, and the man greedily gulps it down, only to come up choking even more than he already was. "You little traitor," he gasps, sounding like his throat is closing up. "You said it was the antidote."

Sark brushes a piece of imaginary lint off of his robes and shrugs, moving over to collect the poisoned book to take with him, lest it leave a bigger mess behind than Irina particularly wants to clean up. "For all intents in purposes, it is. It will eliminate the symptoms of the poison. Unfortunately, it will also kill you significantly faster, which is the true mercy, really."

He pulls the hood back over his head and gives an ironic little bow and turns on his heels to walk out of the library. Dalca's dying curses echo throughout the whole hall as he makes his way out, until they finally stop altogether, plunging the monastery into silence once more. This section of the monastery is empty at this time of night, so it will be awhile before dear Brother Costel's body is found.

And, by that time, Sark will be long gone, leaving no sign he was here, save for the body on the floor.


End file.
